Tuesday, October 29, 2013

"A Suicide In The Family" -Jewish Week

Anat Reschke Ph.D.

08/28/12, Anat Reschke- Bang!, was the sound I heard in the middle of my sleep. I jumped up,
but my husband Matt wasn’t there. I bolted out of bed and ran down the
stairs, tears streaming down my face, praying, “Please God, don’t let
this be what I think it is.”

I ran into our home office, where Matt might have been working. No
Matt. I noticed the door to our garage was unlocked. I ran into the
garage, crying, shaking, and there, I saw my husband of 15 years lying
on the ground in a pool of blood surrounding his head. He had finally
done what he talked about over the years.Matt suffered from a mental illness (Bipolar II, unofficially
diagnosed). He never acknowledged this and refused to seek treatment.
He was extremely bright and throughout much of his 41 years was able to
compensate. But mental illness doesn’t discriminate. Even smart people,
even Jewish people, can be in its grip.

It was now almost five in the morning on Oct. 31, 2011, just a few
minutes after the fatal gunshot. People gradually streamed into my
house. I was in a state of shock. Our rabbi, Seth Gordon (formerly of
Bethpage, L.I.), appeared at 5:30 a.m. I have few recollections of that
morning, but one is the rabbi’s wife folding mounds of laundry strewn
over our couch.

I remember repeatedly asking, “What do I tell my kids?” ages 9 and 7.
Just then, my 7-year-old came down the stairs, bleary-eyed, rubbing the
sleep out of his eyes, wondering why were all these people here. That
was my cue to awaken his brother and tell them that their father was
dead.There was the police interview, funeral, shiva, many meals. It’s all a
blur, with the exception of the vivid image of my 9-year-old donning
his father’s tallit and tefilin every morning during shiva.“How are you doing?” people ask. “How are the kids doing?” I never
know how to answer. It has taken a community to help us in our process
of healing, recovery and growth. But recovering is exactly what we’re
doing. I write this as Matt’s one-year yahrtzeit approaches. I’m
vacationing at a lake with my boys and Sheila, my “eight-week friend.”

I met Sheila at Annie’s Hope, a family bereavement center in St. Louis.

After Matt’s suicide, my boys and I attended an eight-week
bereavement group. The boys were in a group with other kids their age; I
was in a group with others who lost someone to suicide. Sheila and I
bonded immediately. She refers to me as her “suicide sister.” I marvel
at our friendship, two women — one Jewish and one Christian — who
seemingly would have nothing else in common, have so much in common. Our
discussion today at the lake centers on why I had to bring my own meat
and what exactly does “kosher” mean. Thanks to my Ramaz education, I
could explain this to her.

Between my shul, my children’s day school, and my professional
community, I have never felt alone in this nightmare. I grew up in
Queens and moved to St. Louis 18 years ago. My family still resides in
New York. People have asked me, “Are you moving back?” The thought never
crossed my mind. My community, my support network, is here in St.
Louis. Meals came to my house for months. Nine months later, I still
have meals in my freezer. People volunteered to babysit, take my kids
for play dates and run errands. The emotional support offered to me was
beyond what I expected. I am a psychologist and therefore many of my
friends are psychologists and psychiatrists. I joke that I have “friends
with benefits.” Rabbi Gordon was yet another source of tremendous
emotional support and comfort.

But there are bad days, full of sadness, grief, trauma, loneliness,
anxiety, and anger. There are the intense emotions of missing Matt.
There are times when I can have empathy and compassion for him that he
was so miserable, that suicide was the only option he felt he had. There
are times when I am enraged at him and times when I have immense
anxiety about being a single mother.

Therapy has been crucial in our recovery. Three times a week, I drive
to opposite ends of town, so that the boys and I each have a chance to
talk to a professional about the normal emotions we experience. People
ask, “How much longer are the boys going to be in therapy?” My reply:
“Forever.”

As the holidays and Matt’s yahrtzeit approach, I ponder our healing
and recovery. My boys are fast asleep from a day of swimming and boating
with Sheila’s son. My family and friends tell me that they are amazed
by how well we’re doing. Are there bad days? Absolutely. But they’re
interspersed with good ones and ever-emerging feelings of hope. Anat Reschke is a psychologist in private practice in St. Louis.

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